As he passed the reception desk Denham saw that he’d caught the eye of a young man sitting with a group of four others in the corner of the lobby, and was immediately on his guard. He walked into the deserted bar, sat at a tall stool in front of the barman, and glanced in the mirror behind the crystal and bottles. Sure enough, the man followed him in, accompanied by the others, and they all sat at a table nearby.
Were they watching him?
He ordered a large whisky. The young man glanced again at Denham, but the others, deep in some boisterous discussion, didn’t seem to be looking. Nothing unusual if the local police were keeping a tab on him, he supposed. Especially after he’d come so spectacularly to the attention of the area Brownshirt division on his arrival. He lit an HB and watched the reflected smoke coil into the air. Couldn’t a man have a quiet drink without being spied on?
Before he could even sip his whisky, the young man was standing next to him at the bar, waiting to order. He turned to Denham with a broad smile.
‘You’re American?’
First Greiser, now this. Why hadn’t he stayed in his room?
‘English, actually.’
‘Wonderful. I love your Cary Grant.’
The remark was more unexpected for being spoken in English.
‘So what do you like about Friedrichshafen?’ the man said, still smiling. ‘The friendly locals?’ This he said with a slight tip of his head towards the barman, who was polishing a glass and eyeing them both with suspicion.
It was hearing the actor’s name pronounced with a German accent that made Denham smile, despite himself. ‘I’m here as a guest of the Zeppelin Company.’
The man’s eyes widened. ‘That’s why we’re here,’ he said, ‘for the Hindenburg, I mean. We’re the movie crew filming the opening ceremony of the Olympiad on Saturday. We were just arguing about how to set up the shot as we fly over.’
Denham turned to look properly at him. He was quite young, perhaps about twenty-seven, slender, good- looking, and dark for a German, with glossy black hair sleeked stiffly back. His features were delicate, Italian almost, with a straight nose and long eyelashes. He had on a white sports sweater over an open-necked shirt, like a tennis player.
‘Friedrich Christian,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘But everyone calls me Friedl.’
Denham introduced himself. ‘You’re a cameraman?’
‘I’m training to be one. I used to be an actor,’ he said with a shrug, ‘but there are not so many roles for dark-haired boys these days… I write poetry, too. And you? You must be a reporter. You don’t look like a tourist.’
‘Is it that obvious?’ Denham said with a wink and straightaway wished he hadn’t. The young man gave him an odd, private smile.
Denham shifted on the bar stool and mentioned that he’d be on Saturday’s flight, too.
‘Excellent-then together we’ll descend through the clouds to Olympus, like gods.’
‘Where did you learn such good English?’
‘In Berlin. I lived with a poet from Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. He taught me. But so did Agatha Christie and John Buchan
… and Jean Harlow, Bessie Smith, and Cab Calloway.’
Denham felt sorry for him. He would have to hide his nature a bit better if he was to avoid a visit from the Gestapo’s queer squad. All the same, there was something not wholly trustworthy about him-in the hustlerlike way he grinned and stood a fraction too close for comfort.
‘Who’s starring in the film?’
‘It’s a documentary, called Olympia. The athletes are the stars I suppose… although in a way I don’t think the film is about sport at all. May I?’ he said, pointing at Denham’s matches on the bar and producing a very fine cigarette case. It was a beautiful object, Denham noticed, fashioned of engraved silver and inscribed with the initials KR.
‘Let me guess,’ Denham said as Friedl lit up. ‘The film is really about showcasing the might of the new Germany to the world? No one knows that better than the reporters. Everything serves politics now, including the Hindenburg. ’
Friedl pondered this as he inhaled. ‘No, not that even,’ he said. ‘It’s about perfection, physical perfection. The whole film is about the power and beauty of the body…’
That’s probably the biggest Nazi obsession of all, Denham thought.
Later, on the way back to his room, he wondered about the Nazis’ attitude towards homosexuals. A boy caught with a boy faced conviction under Paragraph 175 and a long stretch in a camp, where the ‘175ers’ got a worse time than the Jews. Yet no other regime in history had done more to throw boys together with boys, not to mention kitting them out in a fetish of straps, belts, and boots.
Other things about that lad rang warning bells, too, all of them faint except for one: the initials on that silver cigarette case meant that either his name wasn’t Friedl Christian, or it wasn’t his. And if it wasn’t his, he’d probably stolen it.
The Alpine air had made Denham drowsy. He lay down on his side in the same spot as before and was gazing again at the photograph next to his bed when he realised that his reflection was no longer in its frame.
He sat up, all his suspicions coming alive.
Had it been moved?
Warily he looked around the room, at his case, his typewriter.
Maybe he was being paranoid.
Chapter Five
The summons was swift in coming. At ten-thirty Eleanor was still slumbering when Olive shook her. ‘Hey,’ she squeaked, sounding for all the world like Betty Boop. ‘Mr Brundage wants to see you in the C deck coffee room.’
She sat up slowly and felt her temples with her fingers. ‘Jesus.’ Her eyes felt too small for their sockets, and there was a bilious, grapey concentration coating her tongue.
Show them what you’re made of, sister, she told herself. ‘Kid, pass me those Alka-Seltzers next to the washbasin, would you?’
Half an hour later she entered the coffee room, fresh, made up, and wearing her team uniform for the first time. Avery Brundage was sitting behind a table with three other committee members she didn’t recognise. But at least Hacker wasn’t there to gloat.
The door opened again, and Mrs Hacker plodded in and took a seat.
‘Good morning,’ Eleanor said with a bright smile. ‘What’s this about?’
‘I think you know what this is about, Mrs Emerson,’ Brundage said, tapping his thumb with a pencil. They each had a copy of the AOC handbook in front of them. ‘Mrs Hacker discovered you drunk and abusive at two o’clock this morning.’
‘That’s hardly true,’ said Eleanor. ‘It was one-thirty for a start.’ She noticed one of the committee members suppressing a smile, but Brundage was not amused.
‘Don’t screw with us, young lady. I made the rules perfectly clear. If you set yourself above everyone else you will disrupt the team’s morale and discipline, and I will not stand for that.’ His voice rose to a shout. It was a shock, like a clap of thunder on a fine day. ‘I spent two years fighting old man Taylor. Tell me, am I fighting you, too? Because you will not win.’ His eyes were blazing. For several seconds he glared at her. Then, in a calmer voice, he said, ‘I should tell you that I am minded to drop you from the team. However… my colleagues, in their wisdom, think it fair to give you one more chance.’
Eleanor glanced at the other men, grateful to know she had allies who had restrained him.
‘You will not be seen on the first-class deck again. Do you understand me?’ He slammed his fist on the table. ‘One last chance. Now get out and train.’
